Computer Men
They came through my front door looking solemn, handed me the bag of doughnuts* and said, We’ve decided you have too much tech kit, and we’re going to take it all away. We’ve brought you some paper and pens. Oh, and you can keep your phone.
HA HA HA HA BLOODY HA.
Computer Men think they’re so funny.
Computer Men think they can get away with anything because if they ever fired me I’d be a drooling idiot within forty-eight hours.** And they’re right, of course. So, to begin with, our top level summit wasn’t as awful as, at 3 am***, I’d decided it was going to be: I’d decided that the only reason they’d decided to come here in person† and furthermore in force, was that they were going to fire me. Being fun to watch has its limits. And I was going to have to fall on my likeliest-to-impale writing instrument, because there was no other answer.
Ten hours later I’m not entirely sure what I’ve agreed to, but I’ll find out next Wednesday when my usual Computer Man†† plus Number Two Computer Man who was here today with Head Computer Man, turn up bearing my new replacement laptop††† and a list with a lot of xxxxxs on it about what they’re going to do to . . . uh, the phone, and all the pieces of paper and the pens. But one of the unredeemable disabilities that all my pieces of paper labour under is the homeopathic software. Which may very well be the answer–or rather the question–to most of my fiendish and paroxysmal problems–including my current interesting experience of the forum. Computer Men have, they say, exhaustively played basketball with this blog’s forum back at their office and can’t get anything to misbehave. But they aren’t playing with several gazillion KB of imperfectly domesticated homeopathic software.‡
Here’s the news however. At the end of all the negotiating‡‡ and after I had (foolishly) let them upstairs into my office where they were wrenching things out of the walls and laughing maniacally‡‡‡ I said One last thing. Can you pleeeeease stick all your scruples and clever ideas in your . . . er, aside, and just give me Firefox? Or Mozilla.§ And, flushed and sparkling-eyed from electronic mayhem, Number Two Computer Man complied. . . .
And at about this point, when I might have been in danger of sitting down and trying to find out (a) if I can use it and (b) if it will by any chance allow me to play in my own forum, I looked at the time and said, Yeeep! Leave now! I have to go ring a funeral!
I’d got home last night to a somewhat wistful message from the tower captain of my Wednesday bell practise asking if I might by any chance be able to ring a funeral this afternoon. Jeez, I’m so popular lately. But as I’ve told you I believe that bells should be a part of more of the rituals of life–births, weddings, deaths, birthdays, anniversaries–than they are, so it’s one of those situations where if I can I should, so I said yes.§§ This is at a tower I hadn’t rung at before§§§ but it is a trifle notorious in the area, and I said to Marilyn, er, what about the bells? You know my handling skills are a little lumpy. Oh, you’ll be fine, she said.
She lied. These bells make the ones at our once-a-month practise at the village-next-door look friendly and cooperative–and for similar reasons, which is that they are rarely rung. But you’re standing there frantically fighting with your rope and saying to yourself, Service to the community! This is a skilled, valuable service to the community! Clank! This particular ring of bells also sound like dented tin buckets, which is a little disheartening. But we rang. By golly we rang.
One of our number had come on his brand-new Harley Davidson, of which he is–ahem!–somewhat proud.¤ He rolled silently downhill past us who had parked our large clumsy more-easily-blocked-in cars a bit of a distance from the church, popped the clutch and started with a ROAR. Oh that Harley roar. We watched/listened to this performance and then one of us said to Marilyn, who is married to Motorcycle Dude, what does the thing weigh? Isn’t it hard to handle on the ground? Marilyn said, I haven’t a clue.
I said, Harleys aren’t so bad, because their centre of gravity is so low. Some of the other, taller bikes are trickier–
And the fellow who had asked the question said, And how do you know this?
And I said, Because I used to have a motorcycle, of course!
And Marilyn said, Yes, I’m sure you did. You look like a motorcycle chick.
I’m going to take this as a compliment. Even if it may only refer to the fact that Motorcycle Dude also wears high top All Stars.
* * *
* No of course I haven’t eaten any! Just looking at the bag is making my wrinkly, menopausal belt^ tighter! The bag has a little plastic window in it so you can see the doughnuts inside! They’re all plump and light golden brown and dusted with sugar and the one in the centre of this perfect framed picture of depravity has the little hole where the jelly-squirter went in facing out and a single drop of deep garnet jelly is poised there! I can see the calories beaming out at me! Especially the jelly calories! AAAAAAUGH!
^ Actually I’m not sure belts get menopause.
** All right, all right! Thirty six hours!! Maybe twenty four!
*** So like half an hour after I’d turned the light out, when I should be so deeply asleep only a howling hellhound could wake me up
† Bearing doughnuts
†† Who will have been let out of his darkened room by then, given a radical massage and put on a strict regime of vitamins and cold baths
††† The one with more memory than more memory than the entire pantheon, which isn’t enough. Which I’ve already paid for. When HCM passed me the invoice today I looked at it and uttered involuntarily, J—-. My eyes are bleeding. That’s why we keep you, said HCM. We enjoy your use of the language.
Fine. Buy some of my books. The money’ll come back to you in a few hours anyway.
‡ Or the OED, but I’ve never found the OED to be anything other than perfectly stable and polite. Or the bell-ringing software but that’s really teeny.
‡‡ I want some of my paper in notebooks. With pretty covers. And a proper fountain pen.
‡‡‡ No one can laugh as maniacally as a Computer Man
§ Some of you may have noticed a couple of random comments from me on the forum this afternoon, trying to get the damn thing to crash with a Computer Man looking over my shoulder. It took several minutes, but it whined and fell over finally.
§§ There are occasional advantages to being a fairly lousy ringer. If I were good, this attitude could get me in a lot of trouble.
§§§ Which meant I would get a tower grab out of the occasion. This might mean more if I kept track of the towers I’ve rung at, which I don’t.
¤ He has the complete kit too: the full leathers, etc. Well, I did the full leathers thing myself–after I’d taken my first header off my bike at speed, destroyed my nylon parka and developed a nice case of road rash. Furthermore, I had Harley leathers because those were the only bike leathers there were in those days. I should show up at bell practise some night in my old Harley jacket, which I still have, and freak ‘im out.^ But Motorcycle Dude’s new Harley jacket laces up the back. Okay, I’m jealous.^^
^ It has my Phi Beta Kappa key dangling from the breast pocket. I was a cow when I was young too.
^^ Perhaps this is the moment to mention my Harley Davidson fountain pen. No, really.
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